Where's Porthos?
by LadyCavil
Summary: Inspired by the photos released by Jessica Pope on September 4. Athos and d'Artagnan return to the garrison after a rough mission, and Aramis needs to know why Porthos is not among them.
1. Chapter 1

"Where's Porthos?" Aramis' question went unanswered, and the marksman's stomach rolled.

Athos and d'Artagnan wearily dismounted, handing their reins to the stable boy hovering nearby.

Aramis studied his brothers with an intensity they'd compared to sunlight passing through glass.

It had been bad enough that the trio was meant to have returned a week prior, but now they returned with Porthos' horse. With Porthos' weapons. With _out_ Porthos. Looking like hell. With. Out. _Porthos_.

"Athos."

"Aramis, not now."

" _Athos_ -" Aramis persisted. Athos couldn't show up late without Porthos and expect Aramis to wait for answers.

"Aramis," Athos began again, voice deadly low with exhaustion and warning. "This is not a conversation I wish to have here in the yard."

Athos trudged to the stairs, d'Artagnan following close behind.

"Athos, if you're about to tell me he's… that he's…"

"I'm not." Athos' voice was softer than before but no less tired. The two weary Musketeers resumed their slow climb of the stairs to Athos' office and disappeared from view of the courtyard before Aramis so much as inhaled again. The lack of oxygen left the marksman feeling vaguely off, but its effects were nothing compared to the relief of knowing Porthos still lived and the mounting pain brought on by his brother's absence.

"Oh glorious apostle Saint Jude," Aramis began praying in fervent whispers when his lungs finally righted themselves. His legs moved him with difficulty, as through water, toward the captain's office. "Faithful servant and friend of Jesus…"


	2. Chapter 2

**LC's A/N: This chapter is brought to you by ofahattersmind.**

 **ofahattersmind's A/N: *waves* Hello, Musketeers fandom!**

Porthos was, well, stuck. Now, to be fair, the plan had been a magnificent one-truly brilliant, in fact. It remained so until things went wrong.

Porthos shuffled. Compared to his lumbering strut, this pace effectively disguised his normally confident swagger, transforming him into a timid giant. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, and he hated it.

Men and women shuffled ahead and behind him, all of them shackled together and forced to march only their captors knew where. Only them and Porthos, of course. But then, he wasn't here for the location. He was here to find out just how deeply this particular vein of corruption ran. They couldn't just eradicate slavery in France, but they could cripple it. And by God, Porthos intended to do just that.


	3. Chapter 3

"What?" The aching in Aramis' chest reduced his voice to a shuddering breath.

He was certain he should feel rage, perhaps even an ounce of betrayal, but mostly he felt empty. His heart was broken much the way a clay jar shatters when it's dropped to the ground; those dark emotions had spilled out, drained completely away.

His entire body shook, trembled from head to toe. He leaned against the desk to support himself, but his arms were in such a useless state that he found himself nearly doubled over it. With two fingers he rubbed the bridge of his nose while attempting to calm his breathing, return it to a pattern suitable for sustaining life and consciousness. He continued to tremble, but that unsteadiness was then joined by a tingling in his hands and arms as well as his legs, the sensation like being stuck with hundreds of pins and needles all at once.

Athos and d'Artagnan observed Aramis' progression of emotion from their various places in the room. Athos likened such moments of Aramis' emotional deterioration to the slow spread of cracks across a pane of glass. If Aramis was going to shatter, Athos wanted it to happen soon. Aramis is more of a hinderance than help when he sinks into that state, when his mind is reeling and otherwise occupied; that's how people get hurt, not just Aramis, but the people around him as well, those he's meant to protect.

Aramis turned around and slid his back down the front of the desk until he became a collapsed tangle of legs on the floor. He stayed there long enough to collect himself, long enough to lock his anguish away, long enough to remember that the longer he remained a broken mess on the floor meant the longer Porthos remained...undercover. Aramis refused to call him a slave; the very thought left a wretched taste in his mouth.

So he stood, ran his hands through his hair, and turned to Athos. "How long?"

d'Artagnan looked away from the wall he'd been staring at to ask, "How long what?"

Ah, at last Aramis found his rage simmering beneath his sorrow, and for all the world he wished he need not clarify because God knows how close he was to saying _How long since you abandoned him there?_. He was in no mood to argue with the Gascon, and even if he were it would be more time lost. It was fortunate then that Athos understood without Aramis' elaboration.

"Four days."

Aramis swallowed, nodded, and immediately departed to pack his things. Four days. Four days without back up. Four days without support. Four days without brothers. Four long days alone.


End file.
